


Where We Wake Sobbing For Joy

by Raphaela_Crowley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Books, Crowley Comforts Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Saves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional, Fantasy, Gen, Hastur Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Hell, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loss, Mind Meld, No Slash, Protective Crowley, Stars, Trauma, Wings, Worried Crowley (Good Omens), Wuthering Heights References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25323022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: Crowley rescues a traumatized Aziraphale from Hastur and imprisonment in Hell, only to fear something inside the angel has snapped forever and he's lost his best friend.So he breaks the rules and goes to a place where he isn't welcome, a world that is Aziraphale's alone, in hopes of making things right again.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 114
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	Where We Wake Sobbing For Joy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cafelatte100](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafelatte100/gifts).



> A/N: This story includes one instance of very strong language.

_Where We Wake Sobbing For Joy_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

Crowley was asleep in his flat's lounge – his back against the couch, head lolling back and mouth partway open – with half-dimmed spotlights and flickering neon tubes beaming directly down on his face.

It was early evening; he meant to be out. Even after everything that had happened with near-Armageddon, Crowley really wasn't the sort to linger within the walls of his own fashionable home. It was where he went at the _end_ of being where he wanted to be. Usually, at this hour, he'd still be at the bookshop visiting Aziraphale. Or, if the angel – as he occasionally had cause to, when even the company of Crowley had quite worn out its welcome – happened to make a few very pointed remarks about being busy and, thusly, sent him off, he might be wandering Soho, _pretending_ he had something exciting to do.

Aziraphale was out of London for a couple of days – some estate sale in the countryside which included a number of old, valuable books had caught his attention.

"You mustn't misunderstand me, Crowley," the angel had said, "I'm positively _thrilled_ to have first editions of _Biggles Goes to Mars_ – tickled pink, as they say. The _Just William_ books were a nice surprise, too. Such lovely red covers. But–" and here he had stopped and sighed. " _But_ it would be nice to have something a bit more mature to read in the shop – old books like I used to have. Adam Young did his best, of course, and the result was lovely. Except, well, he _is_ a child, and I'm thousands of years old. He doesn't quite understand my taste in all things."

"Makes sense," Crowley had replied, his tone sincere but also a trifle short.

He hadn't been cross, just sulky and a bit sorry for himself. He'd fallen a little out of the habit of not seeing the angel almost daily now that there wasn't any reason to be secretive about it.

There was something about Crowley most people didn't suspect. It went along with his bizarre optimism. He often thought if _a little_ of something was good, _a lot_ of it was probably even better. He conceded – because it was simply _science_ – that in the case of watering plants this was not true, yet stubbornly held the belief that it was still true concerning _most_ things – such as consuming alcohol and spending time with Aziraphale. The demon, if a little excessively, was enjoying the friendship being free-flowing these days; he wasn't keen on the idea of Aziraphale taking off without him for forty-eight hours.

He could have gone with him, he supposed, Aziraphale hadn't say he _couldn't_ – not in so many words – but for whatever reason, he hadn't.

So here Crowley was, snoozing in his lounge, hoping he would wake up to find the entire two days had gone by during his oblivion and a blinking light on the ansaphone would indicate that Aziraphale was calling to tell him he was back.

That was when more than just the neon flickered. The lights went up to full brightness. The television came on with a crackle.

"Crooo-leee..." crooned a familiar voice.

Hell hadn't contacted him since Aziraphale pretended to be him during his trial; Crowley decided to try and act like he wasn't hearing them _now_. He snored rather obnoxiously, hoping they'd get the hint.

CROWLEY, _WAKE UP_!

" _Wot_ , Hastur?" He made a show of stretching and taking a long time rubbing his eyes before he turned to face the screen.

Hastur had hijacked what appeared to be some manner of rebroadcasted daytime soap opera. He was sitting on a fancy couch in a lavish flat not unlike Crowley's own – it was the epitome of style. There was a gold-rimmed china teacup on the glass coffee table in front of the Duke of Hell, but he wasn't drinking from it – it wasn't his, belonging to whatever character he'd shorted out and taken the place of to bring Crowley this message.

"Hello, Crowley."

"Didn't we agree that I was to be left alone?"

"Had something to tell you. Figured you should know."

"Well?" Crowley raised his brow.

Lifting his tan coat, Hastur reached inside and pulled out a long, gleaming white feather, twirling it for dramatic effect. "Recognise this?"

Crowley's mouth went dry.

"Of course you do." Hastur smirked. "Belonged to your best friend, didn't it?"

"Hastur," said Crowley, very slowly, his eyes at their snakiest. "You're going to tell me exactly what you've–"

"Turns out your little pet angel wasn't so immune to Hellfire after all."

The world was slipping away from Crowley, and fast – he was barely holding onto reason. " _Hastur_ ," he repeated, hissing. He felt incapable of saying anything else at the moment.

"It hasn't sunk in yet, has it?" The smile on Hastur's face was one of pure contentment. "I'll give it a minute. You'll get there, you flash bastard."

_No, no, no, no, no no._

"Don't know why Heaven had such a difficult time with him," Hastur mused. "All I had to do was hold a little Hellfire close to his clothes and that fat angel started squirming, eyes gone all buggy."

 _Your quarrel was with me, Hastur, not_ him _, dammit!_ Crowley's face was ashen, and he'd somehow ended up on his knees in front of the television. "He hadn't done anything to you."

The satisfaction on Hastur's face doubled. You never saw a demon so perfectly happy as he was in that moment. " _Yet_."

And that was the moment it really sunk in. Not only did he believe Hastur could have killed his best friend, he believed he'd done it with glee, and in the firm belief that he had every right to do it – because of Ligur.

Hastur would probably never admit how much Ligur had meant to him. This was the closest he'd ever come. But he meant for Crowley to hear it – he'd made sure he couldn't miss the underlying meaning.

A best friend for a best friend.

_Shit, shit, shit._

The first time Crowley thought he'd lost Aziraphale – when the bookshop had burned down – he'd screamed on all fours and cursed – or blessed, depending on how you looked at it – everything in existence.

_Somebody killed my best friend!_

This time, he was silent. The words would not form. The scream would not rise from his bile-filled throat. His insides were being wrung out; his body was hot and cold at the same time.

His snake eyes wouldn't – simply _couldn't_ – tear themselves away from the feather in Hastur's hand, swinging lazily between his index and middle fingers, as if it were no more than an obscenely oversized quill pen.

The feather was a primary – almost as long as Aziraphale had been tall. Some of the barbs were slightly bent, curved to one side, because Hastur had sat down with it in his coat.

It occurred to Crowley, then, that they had to have ripped it away from Aziraphale _before_ they burned him with Hellfire – meaning they likely tortured him first.

Hell had methods of torture available – especially to a Duke of Hell as _nearly human_ in his insatiable spite as Hastur – that made the Spanish Inquisition look like a joke. What Aziraphale would have gone through... It didn't bear thinking of.

Here Crowley had been assuming the angel was off buying books, feeling bored and sorry for _himself_...

The thought, when it came, was a dagger to the heart.

 _I could have gone_ with _him._

If he'd been there – if there had been _two_ of them against Hastur...

"I've waited a long time, Crowley," said Hastur, "to hear you scream the way I did."

"I'm not screaming," he murmured through lips that felt numb.

"Oh, you are," Hastur sighed, dropping the feather and watching Crowley's eyes follow it until it disappeared out of the shot (the camera angle the soap he hijacked had been filmed using did not include the floor). "I can see it on your face. It's _glorious_." He paused. "You know, if your best friend Aziraphale wasn't immune to Hellfire, you probably aren't immune to Holy Water, either, are you?"

Crowley didn't react. It didn't matter. If they destroyed him now, so much the better.

His lack of reaction caused Hastur to scowl with minor disappointment before brightening. "Oh, well. This is _much more entertaining_ than killing you anyway."

Crowley opened his mouth, to say he didn't know _what_ , only Hastur was gone, replaced by two good-looking persons in their twenties, crying about their cheating lovers. One of them picked up the teacup, proceeding to sip and monologue.

The show – whatever trash it was – was back to being itself.

The camera angle tilted to the floor, and Crowley held his breath.

No feather.

For some reason, that was the final straw for him. How dare television go back to being normal – how fucking _dare_ it – just like _that_.

In mere moments, the television was a million little pieces of glass spread across the floor, couch, and other nearby surfaces of Crowley's lounge.

The demon brushed specks of glass off his dark trousers and shambled into the kitchen. Shaking hands reached for a liquor bottle but stopped before his fingers made proper contact.

He pulled back and slammed the cabinet shut.

There were a few calls he had to make first – he had to be _sure_.

* * *

Days slipped by uncounted, melting into weeks. Perhaps even a month, for all the demon knew.

After Crowley had phoned the two very unpleasant and snooty people in charge of the estate sale Aziraphale was meant to be attending and they told him no plump blonde man in a tartan bow-tie had been present, affirming the worst of his fears, he'd let himself and the flat go, pun not intended, to hell.

Rooms that were spotlessly clean had become little better than ransacked rooms in a crack house after a bust. Most things that could be broken were lying in pieces scattered across various surfaces. The once well-tended houseplants had begun to die off, for want of daily water and scoldings, then decided to rebel. A few of the stronger ones began – as if they had any right to – growing vines that spread across several rooms they weren't allowed in.

Crowley barely acknowledged them. Once they took over the kitchen, he brought all the liquor bottles he had into his office, locked it, and gave any leaves that penetrated the door-frame such a scathing glower they wouldn't come in any further.

All he did was stare at his ansaphone – one of the very few breakable things that had escaped his rage (his sleek computer had not been so lucky) – which would occasionally blink with messages he might or might not remember to delete to make room for new ones.

He wasn't expecting a call. He just liked the small break it brought in the monotony. Crowley was beginning to forget his rage, to fall into a state of what could almost be called acceptance. The small needling of his nerves that he got from whatever idiot kept calling him, breathing heavily after the tone, then hanging up without uttering a single word, reminded him he was bloody _furious_.

He was furious with _everyone_ – the world at large, God, Hastur, his landlord, Hell, Heaven, himself, and even Aziraphale, for being bastard enough to not exist any more.

When he wasn't glaring daggers at the ansaphone, Crowley was drinking.

Same bottles of liquor over and over again. The alcohol left his bloodstream and refilled the bottles every time he started to feel sick, and then he'd just pick up the nearest bottle and have a long swallow.

He thought of breaking some of the bottles, but decided not to. He didn't want reprocessed wine all over his desk.

Then one morning Crowley had his face flat on the desk when the ansaphone picked up for his breathy caller.

They still didn't talk, but before the expected _click_ of the tape running out or a receiver being hung up, Crowley distinctly heard Hastur's voice and that of another demon.

_'Never learns, does he?'_

_'Wells's an angel – not so clever as they think they're, amirite?'_

_'Pulls this pathetic stunt every damn day.'_

_Cl–_

The bottle Crowley was holding crashed to the floor. The demon sobered, threw on his sunglasses, and grabbed the keys to the Bentley before the click finished.

– _ick_

* * *

Speeding down Oxford Street, Crowley made his way towards the building where the majority of entrances to Heaven and Hell were located.

Aziraphale wasn't gone.

The angel had been calling him every day – trying to tell him he was still alive, still in Hell – and he'd just sat there, drinking like an idiot, mourning and raging.

He parked the Bentley illegally and ran across the road and onto the slick pavement. It hadn't rained the night Hastur told him Aziraphale was dead, killed with Hellfire, but it _had_ rained last night. Some of the houseplants had been pounding at the double glazing on the windows in the flat, trying to get to the cascading water. Everything was shiny and slick. A _human_ running like that would have fallen on their ass and landed in a puddle. Crowley didn't even skitter.

He was getting his friend back. If the angel was alive, he could be rescued.

* * *

It took Crowley six hours to find Aziraphale.

Probably because – in addition to having to duck and take cover behind leaky pipes and rubbish every time a demon came careening by – he checked the torturing cells and the locked kennels where the hell-hounds lived first. Something had made him think Aziraphale would be there – being tortured or pressed against a wall while a hell-hound salivated less than a foot away.

That seemed like the sort of place Hastur would put an angel in Hell.

Except he wasn't there.

No, the angel was in the main office, at a crowded desk, dressed in dark clothes, seated in front of a mountain of paperwork. He didn't look well. He was still plump, but decidedly less so since Crowley had seem him last, and there was a weariness in every movement he made, no matter how small.

Crowley crouched behind a chair, watching Aziraphale's platinum head bob up and down while he moved stacks of paper from one wire basket labelled IN to another labelled OUT.

Aziraphale kicked back his chair and began to rise from his place. There was a jangling sound, and Crowley realised his friend was clapped in irons. Knowing Aziraphale, he'd probably tried to escape any number of times and Hastur had needed a way to slow him down.

It felt like ages before Crowley could be certain no one was watching and approach Aziraphale.

To his surprise, Aziraphale didn't look remotely glad to see him. He just shook his head and sat back down, trying to file paperwork but with hands shaking so badly he couldn't manage it.

Papers scattered across the floor.

"Angel, it's _me_ ," he hissed.

Aziraphale just blinked at him sadly.

Crowley snapped his fingers, making the shackles fall from the angel's wrists and the irons slide off his ankles.

This seemed to confuse Aziraphale, who looked dumbly down at his freed wrists, then back at Crowley.

"Just like the Bastille, eh?" Crowley tried, still in a low hiss, so as not to be overheard.

Something in Aziraphale's face changed then. He furrowed his brow and took a step closer to Crowley, peering – almost hopefully – into his face, like he was looking for somebody in his eyes.

There wasn't time for this. Crowley snagged Aziraphale's hand and began to drag him to the other side of the office space. They'd have to be very careful getting out now, avoiding anyone's attention. It wasn't an open space like Heaven, but the offices _were_ tightly packed together.

Aziraphale resisted, pulling back his hand.

Crowley grabbed it again, and this time happened to look at it. Something wasn't right. The wrist was twisted at a funny angle, perhaps broken, but that wasn't it, not what had caught Crowley off-guard.

Something with the _fingers_ was different.

That was when he realised – Aziraphale didn't have any fingernails. The angel who had always had his hands elegantly manicured now had nothing but raw skin and bloody cuticles.

" _I'm so sorry_ ," the demon mouthed. "Come on."

But Aziraphale wouldn't go with him. He started backing up in the opposite direction, going further into Hell.

For the shortest of seconds, Crowley began to think it was a trick – that this wasn't Aziraphale – and they were trying to lure him into some sort of trap. Then he was certain – trap or not – it _was_ Aziraphale. The flicker of recognition on his face when he'd mentioned the Bastille...the fact that his hands had shaken when he tried to return to work...the little ingrained mannerisms... No one in Hell would be able to pretend all of that so fluidly. They'd give themselves away – maybe not to another angel, but to Crowley, who'd known Aziraphale for six thousand years and paid attention? Any charade on their part didn't stand a chance.

Whatever the outcome, Crowley knew he was going to follow Aziraphale and force him to leave Hell with him _now_. He wasn't leaving without him.

" _Aziraphale_!" he snapped.

The angel made his way down a dirty corridor to a small holding cell containing a single folding chair. As if it were something he'd done dozens of times, Aziraphale sat down in the chair and put his hands in his lap, looking up at Crowley expectantly.

Crowley started at him.

Aziraphale let out an impatient sigh.

"What?"

Aziraphale glowered.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Nothing.

"Aziraphale, wake up! Answer me!" Crowley pleaded.

He swallowed. "You..." he stammered, a touch haltingly. "You didn't give me permission to talk."

" _What_?"

" _Honestly_ ," huffed Aziraphale, looking quite put out. "I don't know what you demons _want_. You made it quite clear, no mistake, the next time I talked without your permission I was getting a lashing – so, being sensible, I said, all right, would rather not have another one of those, what. Yesterday, you were very adamant about this. Now you're–"

"Aziraphale, I wasn't _here_ yesterday." Crowley could hear – and _feel_ – the panic in his own voice. "I came to get you out."

"You're _very good_ ," Aziraphale decided, his tone a queer mix of bitter and curious. "Since you're going to hit me anyway, can I ask a question? Just one? How _did_ you know about the Bastille? Since you're not _actually_ Crowley, I mean."

"I _am_ Crowley." Crowley knelt by the chair. "You're scaring me, angel."

Aziraphale turned his head, refusing to look at him. His face was damp with streaming tears.

"It's me, and I'm taking you home." Crowley grabbed him by the arms and pulled him up, out of the chair.

This time, as Crowley tugged and swore under his breath – hearing, from the next corridor over, Beelzebub giving a demon a telling off – Aziraphale followed, head down as if being marched to an execution rather than being rescued.

It wasn't until they'd made their way beyond the rows of desks and towards the stairs leading to a side-exit that Aziraphale began to show any sign of interest.

"We'll go up the stairs this way, cut through the corner of the lobby, and the Bentley is just across–" Crowley stopped; Aziraphale was sobbing.

The weeping angel was looking at Crowley with an expression usually reserved for the rarest of books popping up at auction.

"You believe it's me now?" he checked.

Aziraphale nodded.

"Then let's go...up the stairs...go on...before Hastur catches us."

Although Aziraphale complied and dashed up the stairs with vigour that must have hurt, given the state of his ankles and of the wrist that held the rickety railing, the moment they were outside, he closed off again.

He glanced at Crowley in confusion as he got into the Bentley, wouldn't speak again, and just kept gawking at everything they sped past.

"No remarks on my driving?"

Aziraphale blinked at him. He didn't even react when a pedestrian had to throw themselves onto the pavement to avoid the demon running them over.

Crowley sighed, making a sharp right turn. "What the Heaven did they _do_ to you?"

* * *

He took Aziraphale to the bookshop.

He wasn't going to bring him to the flat, not in the state he'd left it in. Besides, Hastur knew where the flat was, and Crowley wasn't entirely sure he knew where the shop was located, not if he'd kidnapped Aziraphale away from it, _after_ he'd set off for the countryside.

"We're all right now," Crowley reminded Aziraphale as they walked through the front door of the shop. "Whatever those bastards did to you down there, it's over. You're safe."

Aziraphale ran his damaged fingertips along the spines of the nearest books with an expression of wonder on his face. He glanced back at Crowley and smiled.

But it wasn't the smile Crowley was used to from the angel – there was no personality in that smile. It was the sort of smile a dull-witted child gave to an adult caregiver.

He sat Aziraphale down in his favourite chair by the desk, watched the angel shudder at the papers stacked on it, and – realising he was thinking of the paperwork in Hell, not actually reading anything written there – Crowley snapped his fingers at him.

Aziraphale nodded at him, smiling dementedly again.

For lack of anything else to do, Crowley made him a cup of cocoa in his favourite white mug with the angel-wing handle and placed it beside him.

"D'you want anything to eat?"

There was no answer, but Aziraphale guzzled the cocoa – steaming though it was – in only two gulps. Crowley thought maybe he should have given him something a bit stronger.

* * *

Nothing Crowley did or said seemed to bring the angel back to his senses. He seemed glad Crowley was with him – he'd reached out and clutched his wrist once when he mistakenly thought the demon was leaving – but otherwise he'd obviously had a complete mental lapse. He'd eat or drink whatever Crowley put in front of him, but he wouldn't ask for anything in particular. He clearly liked seeing the books all around him, but he didn't pick any of them up to read.

Not being bound by physics – size, shape, and general location being optional – there _was_ one thing Crowley could do to see if Aziraphale was still in there, if there was any chance of him returning to himself.

The problem was he didn't like to do it.

It was a length which many a demon wouldn't willingly go to.

It was a breach of etiquette far beyond tearing out wing-feathers. It involved entering the very recesses of another's mind, where you – no matter how loved or cherished to the being in question – weren't welcome.

But Crowley needed to be sure. He needed to know Aziraphale wasn't completely and irrevocably damaged because _he'd_ taken too long to rescue him.

He slipped off his sunglasses and placed them on the nearest shelf.

"Angel," he said, very quietly, bending over next to the couch Aziraphale was curled up on. "I'm _really_ sorry about this – please forgive me."

Nothing.

Sighing, Crowley put his fingers on Aziraphale's temples, stared down into his blank eyes, and focused.

In a flash he was in a dark space that echoed with every breath he took. He swore, was sworn back at by his own echo, then felt along what he assumed was a wall for a switch.

Locating one, he turned it on. The light given off was dim, but he could see he was in a sort of library.

 _Figures_ , he thought, rolling his eyes. The deepest part of Aziraphale's mind _would_ look like a place books were kept. What _else_ would it be?

Except...

The shelves were hollow, empty. There were no books on any of them, and cobwebs were growing in several corners.

" _Aziraphale_!" Crowley called desperately, afraid there wouldn't be anyone within to answer.

Little stars started shining on the floor, directing his feet forwards. Crowley obliged them, letting the shimmering stars take him around any number of shelves and through endless empty rooms.

There was one room, obviously _not_ empty, which caught Crowley's attention – though afterwards he couldn't say why. There was something about it, just behind a pair of elegant French doors, which tempted him like a forbidden apple might tempt a human.

Beyond those tantalizing doors, opened just a _crack_ , Crowley could hear the sounds of swordplay and bells and harp music and gurgling water.

The stars were pointedly directing him away from the doors. Unheeding, Crowley took a step closer, about to poke his head inside.

The doors slammed shut reprimandingly.

" _Ahem_!" said Aziraphale's voice behind him, a little hoarse but definitely his own. "I'll thank you to keep out of there – that's private. You shouldn't be here to begin with, but we'll overlook that, yes? What do you want, Crowley?"

Crowley whirled around, finding himself with Aziraphale, who was dressed in shining white, his fingernails back to normal, his face familiar and dear. "There you are! You stupid–" He choked. "Do you have any idea–"

"Oh, my dear," said Aziraphale gently, reaching out and pulling Crowley into an embrace. "I've missed you, too."

Crowley reluctantly wiggled free. "What's happened to you?"

"As you can see, I'm very much here," Aziraphale assured him, "sound of mind and all that, though I'm sure from your end I didn't particularly look it. Dreadfully sorry about that."

"Then come _back_." Crowley knew he sounded like a petulant child; he didn't care.

"I will," he promised. "But, as you can see, there's lots that needs sorting here first – you'll have noticed the empty shelves."

Crowley nodded.

"I've got to restock, and then I've got to fill all those shelves, and set everything to order again – being a prisoner in Hell does unthinkable things to the mind."

"I'm so sorry."

"But, my dear fellow, it wasn't _your_ fault."

"If I'd gone with you to the estate sale–"

Aziraphale chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"I didn't _want_ you to – I needed a little time on my own, as one does now and again."

"But if I'd known Hastur would–"

"What's done is done, Crowley, let's move on."

Crowley shifted from one foot to the other; the little stars were starting to bite at his ankles like gnats. Aziraphale was being cordial, because it was Crowley and he loved him, but he wasn't welcome in here – in this place where everyone who wasn't the angel was an outsider. Another intruder – _any_ other intruder in these sacred rooms – would have been attacked by everything in sight and torn to pieces.

"Did Hastur and the other demons pretend to be me?" Crowley asked next. This had been bothering him. "Is that why you didn't believe I'd come to get you?"

Aziraphale suddenly looked very sad. "Yes, and it was terrible – they thought it was amusing if I was punished by something that looked like _you_ whenever I disobeyed them."

"Hastur told me they'd destroyed you."

"They _did_ hold some hellish flames close to my face – and I gave myself away flinching." Aziraphale blushed. "Stupid, really. But no, they didn't burn me with it."

"Hastur had one of your feathers," was Crowley's next point.

This evidently surprised Aziraphale. "Only one?"

Crowley's blood ran cold. They'd beaten him, forced him to process paperwork in Hell, and pulled out his fingernails – he hadn't considered that they'd done the same with his wings.

He spoke through gritted teeth. " _How many_ did they rip out?"

Aziraphale was pained. "Rather a lot, Crowley." Sighing, he took the demon's hand in his own. "I'm going to show you something, please don't let it upset you."

They were suddenly standing under a dust-caked rotunda in another room.

"Oh, gosh, I've forgotten to tidy it!" Aziraphale flicked a beringed little finger at the circular ceiling, and the dust cleared off, revealing a portrait of himself in the centre, cradling a large book in his arms. "Ah. Hello, me. I know this is most irregular, but I need you to show Crowley what happened to my wings in Hell."

The portrait frowned and shook its head.

"Er. Yes, I know, old chap, but just this once." To Crowley, he added, "Don't worry, he'll give in any moment. He's soft."

The portrait moved out of the way, muttering to itself, and it was suddenly like watching a video tape.

What looked like Crowley's face was leaning close to Aziraphale's. "Listen, if you want to leave here, there's only one way out – we have to fly. You need to show me your wings so I know you're okay to fly out of here."

"That's Hastur, looking like you," Aziraphale whispered. "He'd been trying to get me to open my wings for him since he dragged me down there – I told him to go boil his head. This was the first time he pretended to be you; rescuing me, supposedly."

Crowley felt his heart breaking. "You really believed that was me."

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. "Mm-hmm."

"Angel, how bad is this going to–"

Aziraphale in the rotunda opened his wings, and offered 'Crowley' a half-smile.

" _Thank you_ ," said Hastur-as-Crowley, smiling back, but not nicely. "Come on in, guys."

Within seconds, before Aziraphale could even _attempt_ to pull his wings back in, he was being pinned to the concrete by a small army of demons while Hastur-as-Crowley began ripping out feathers like he was plucking a Christmas goose.

Under them, writhing, Aziraphale screamed and cried and begged for it to stop.

Hastur-as-Crowley gagged him with a dirty piece of cloth. "I hate the sound of angels crying – it's so damnably shrill."

Crowley trembled; tears burned the back of his eyes.

"I think that's enough – you understand now." Aziraphale flicked his finger at the rotunda and it turned back into a harmless portrait.

"How bad are your wings?"

"They're in terrible shape, but they'll heal – eventually." Aziraphale went pale, seeing something in Crowley's face – a sort of determination. "Crowley, you _idiot_!"

"What?"

"You're thinking of asking to see my wings when you go back to the bookshop so you can help mend them."

" _Yeah_?" He didn't see the problem.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. "Crowley. _Think_. Please."

"I–" He stopped. " _Oh_."

"It's too soon; they will still be damaged when I can take them out in front of you again without being afraid."

"Will you ever tell me everything they did to you?"

"No, my dear – I wouldn't do that to you." Aziraphale opened his eyes. "It's too cruel. Showing that to you just now... That wasn't easy."

"You still called my ansaphone, every day," Crowley whispered brokenly. "After what they did to you?"

"It took a lot of willpower," Aziraphale admitted. "Wiped out six shelves. But yes."

"But," rasped Crowley, "how can I _help_ you? _Now_ , I mean."

"Just keep looking after me – I promise I'll be back, when I'm ready."

"I have to go back now," Crowley realised, feeling as if he were being torn away from his home – because, welcome here or not, it was where his angel currently resided. "Right?"

"You can't stay – I'm sorry – this place will destroy you if you try to remain much longer. You'll burn up. I don't want that."

"But what am I meant to do until you come back?" the demon groaned miserably.

"You could try reading to me," Aziraphale suggested. "I _do_ miss my books dreadfully, but I can't bring myself to read these days. I have too much to do in here to let myself concentrate on the letters."

Crowley agreed to read to him. "I'll see you soon, then?"

Aziraphale reached out, with a plump, warm hand, and patted his cheek.

This was answer enough.

Because it had to be.

* * *

Crowley had been looking after Aziraphale for over three weeks with little change. He was still anxious to examine those wing injuries, given they were the only ones he couldn't try to heal as things stood, but he remembered the look on Aziraphale's face in that other place, that place _he_ wasn't supposed to be, and refrained.

The angel was sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, as he did all day every day unless Crowley moved him in front of the window or into the little kitchenette to eat something.

Crowley had put a tartan blanket over his shoulders and he'd felt slightly hopeful when Aziraphale pulled it a little more securely around himself without any prompting, but nothing further had come of this.

So he eased into a chair across from the angel and began reading. Their reading had been sporadic, out of order, whatever Crowley happened to pick up – the angel didn't seem to care _what_ he read, just _that_ he read to him.

Opening the book, Crowley cleared his throat and flipped a few pages. " _Heaven_ ," he read, " _did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth–_ "

" _And the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath..._ " Aziraphale quoted, his eyes focusing on Crowley as the demon lifted his head from the book and gawked at him as if a duck had suddenly begun doing merchant banking. " _...where I woke sobbing for joy_."

Crowley placed the book down and leaped over to his friend, who stood up shakily from his place on the couch.

They met in a tight hug and clung to each other for a while, until Aziraphale coughed politely, pulling away.

" _Wuthering Heights_ , was it?" the angel guessed, to fill the silence that followed.

"Yeah," said Crowley, though he wasn't sure – he hadn't bothered looking at the title.

"Not a bad choice."

Crowley sniffed, rolling his shoulders back. "Better than _Biggles Goes To Mars_ , anyway."

There would be time later to say what needed to be said – and to mend what had to be mended.

But, for now, they said no more about it.


End file.
